


A Breakup

by kitcassiachan



Series: seen: a haikyuu collection [18]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bittersweet Ending, Break Up, Falling Out of Love, Hanahaki Disease, Hospitalization, M/M, Mild Blood, Recovery, mentioned/implied: Bokuto/Atsumu, no infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29184552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitcassiachan/pseuds/kitcassiachan
Summary: The petal is red, which can never be a good thing. The worst things in life come in red, and because Hanahaki is only profound in the most cliched of ways, spitting out red flowers must be a sign of the worst to come.Of course, that is, if he did indeed spit it out, it is indeed a flower and it does indeed fall under Hanahaki, a rare disease that doesn’t usually affect happily-married men like Akaashi Keiji.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: seen: a haikyuu collection [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711519
Comments: 11
Kudos: 71





	A Breakup

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece for “Hanakotoba, a Bokuaka Zine” and I can finally post it! The zine’s theme was the language of flowers and I couldn’t help but want to play with this classic trope and see if I could subvert it somehow. 
> 
> This has a sad ending, as the title suggests, but no infidelity and no strong angst. Sometimes people just fall out of love.

**A BREAKUP**

**part i: sprout**

The petal is red, which can never be a good thing. The worst things in life come in red, and because Hanahaki is only profound in the most cliched of ways, spitting out red flowers must be a sign of the worst to come. 

Of course, that is, if he did indeed spit it out, it is indeed a flower and it does indeed fall under Hanahaki, a rare disease that doesn’t usually affect happily-married men like Akaashi Keiji. 

_I love you,_ Bokuto says the night before this and every night since their first. Akaashi loves him back this night, the next, and the next. _Always us, always forever._

* * *

The morning it happens, Akaashi wakes up energized without a cough or any of the warning signs. His throat feels fine, albeit rusty. His lungs fill with dewy, morning air. He takes his coffee in the balcony of their apartment, watching the sun rise pretty and pink. 

The alarm hasn’t gone off and Bokuto’s still asleep, curled up in a tight ball, facing away. One of his arms rests above the covers. Akaashi thinks of reaching for it and kissing his bruised knuckles better. More often than not, Bokuto comes home with fingers wrapped in tape, his wedding ring nowhere in sight. 

In his story editor brain, Akaashi thinks it a good metaphor for their relationship, one where he’s married to someone married to volleyball as much as him. When they first met eight years ago, Akaashi had been both, both love and volleyball, not the reason Bokuto played but why he succeeded, his pillar. 

Childishly, he misses those days because the sun shines brightest at noon when it’s at its peak, and Akaashi would bathe in its warmth up close. Bokuto is his sun, and here, there’s no metaphor involved. 

It’s not bad to be one thing—for Bokuto to have more, others. They can’t be each other’s everything.

* * *

He cooks breakfast for them both and leaves Bokuto’s in the microwave, prepares Bokuto’s protein shake and tucks it in the fridge with a note. Then, tiptoes into the bedroom to kiss his husband goodbye. Bokuto stirs in response. The soft smile on his sleepy face pushes Akaashi through most days. 

The trains aren’t as crowded if he leaves before six. He reads on the commute and waits for Bokuto’s thank you text: a picture of him in training gear, sipping on the shake. _Surprise me,_ he used to say, and Akaashi would use different ingredients every time.

There’s a picture of the two of them, sitting on his desk. From their honeymoon: Bokuto in a tacky, Hawaiian shirt, cheesing so big he’s nothing but starry eyes and shiny teeth. Akaashi’s in his arms. It’s been years since they’ve had a proper vacation. Scheduling is tough. _When I make the Olympics team, we’ll go early and make it a trip_ , Bokuto promises. But it doesn’t happen on his first try. It bothers Bokuto more than he lets on and the trip is postponed, though Akaashi thinks it’s a nice idea to get away from everything. 

But Bokuto runs on a schedule. Physically with practice and emotionally with his moods. Akaashi prides himself on being on the same wavelength even if some days he has to adjust to make it so. 

* * *

He works until sundown. When he returns home, carrying take-out because it’s always too late to cook, Bokuto’s still at practice. He texts about an unforeseen team dinner: _Sorry, darling, the coach is taking us for barbecue. With the season ending._ He doesn’t say more than that. Doesn’t need to. Akaashi eats at his desk, highlighting manuscripts. 

He heads to bed and finds it, on the underside of his pillow, bright as a bloodstain. Something the cat must have dragged in, if they had one. It’s always on pillows these things manifest. Every romance novel and BL manga pitch, sitting on his desk untouched, starts with a person and a pillow, on top of which, the flower, and you’re supposed to think, my god, they’re so sad!

People are drawn to tragedy. Smoothing the petal between his fingertips, Akaashi can see why—pain like this comes in a pretty package. He raises the flower towards the light, expecting to feel magic. It’s thin and see-through, nothing beyond what your fingers pluck, walking past a budding bush on the side of the street, or what you might pick out as a child, racing through fields of grass without a care in the world.

The red fades into sudden white towards the middle. Frosted tips like Bokuto’s. Akaashi finds himself smiling at the idea that his ace has penetrated him so deep, even his suffering is Bokuto-flavored.

  
  


**part ii: seedling**

The stories he reads and rejects portray Hanahaki as something violent. There’s retching and blood, coughing your lungs out until they shrink and you die gasping for breath, those last words, an eternal guilt-trip for the other side of the equation. Like it’s their fault that they killed you, like it’s easier to return feelings than reject you ever had them. 

In actuality, it’s so painless Akaashi mistakes it for a fluke. A daydream. Exhaustion. But the flowers keep coming, sneaking up on him where he least expects them just as he’s forgetting all about it. They float innocently in the shower, peak from crevices around the house, in between the pillows on the couch, wrapped in fresh laundry.

* * *

It’s not a difficult secret to keep but it is a difficult burden to shoulder, a difficult pain to parse through and identify, thoughts he battles nightly with Bokuto asleep by his side, blissfully unaware that sometimes, he can’t breathe and cries out of terror. Don’t let him find me, he pleads with some entity that won’t be merciful.

He doesn’t deserve to suffer but the doubt that maybe _it knows_ , creeps into him with every trip to the bathroom, the coughing bouts that leave him doubled-over, throat raw and itching for relief. And there’s fear in him too like nothing he’s ever felt before, like he might throw up his soul with the petals. He plucks each one from the toilet water to check for blood stains. The second stage. Complications. Proof that it’s not just there, it’s there and worsening, feeding off him, throwing roots.

It’s anger he fights most, at the universe—but that’s too broad—himself; he’s broken—too painful—and eventually, despite his best efforts, at Bokuto, his love, his husband. Because it has to be about him. Hanahaki is few things if not love-torn. 

* * *

He researches at night because Bokuto’s asleep and because the coughing fits keep him restless. He tosses in bed, wakes up to vomit until his legs shake and he can’t stand, methodically cleans the bathroom of any evidence that most nights he’s so drained, he naps on the toilet seat, and sits at the kitchen bar with the lights off, typing.

He researches:

— not the disease itself,

— nor the flowers he’s plagued with, what they symbolize, what they mean.

Instead, making lists of his life because he’s practical, because in his world, things make sense and can be resolved through thought and careful analysis. Hanahaki might be fake deep but it has met its match in him, someone who turns every idea a million times over before putting it to rest. 

The blogs say not to overthink. It’s a primitive organism without understanding of the complexities of human emotions—that humans can love you and kill you within the same breath of air. 

Thinking leads to doubting, to delusions of what’s there and what’s not. It leads to depression because after all is said and done, there’s one simple truth remaining, the same conclusion for everyone: you are not good enough. Try as you must. And accepting this means death but surviving it means giving up, means accepting it.

Akaashi can outthink it so he thinks of every day he has spent loving Bokuto as a day he chose to be with him in sickness and death. They have fought viciously for no reason, so why now that they’re good? 

He lists what changed: his job title, the hours, his feelings about it, pride and exhaustion. Bokuto, the way he watches volleyball matches on TV, the look on his face like it’s fun, yeah, but it’s _more_. The look on his face when Sakusa joined the team, then Thomas, then Hinata. 

He lists what he’s eaten, notices it’s always _he_ , not _they_ , and thinks of their dates next, how many and when, lists times they’ve had sex, how many and when, times they’ve kissed, times they’ve held each other and not to say goodbye, what Bokuto whispers during: _I love you. Always. Forever._

  
  


**part iii: vegetative**

He tells Konoha for logistic purposes. He has told no one, not even his parents, who’d say they raised him to be smarter than this. If something were to happen, Bokuto would need someone to rely on, to remind him it’s not his fault and urge him to keep going with his career. Konoha has been there since their beginning. He knows volleyball matters and he loves Akaashi enough to make sure it keeps mattering no matter what. 

It’s a three-sentence confession: I have Hanahaki. It’s been happening for the past few months. I have yet to tell him. 

Konoha blinks like he might know. Akaashi won’t ask what; it’s not important. Suffice it he understands and doesn’t pity him for the choices he’s making. 

Most importantly, like Akaashi predicted, Konoha is solution oriented, doesn’t ask about death, a non-option in Akaashi’s mind. He won’t let it get that far, proceed with the surgery before it kills him. But it might, on accident, prematurely, so utmost preparation is a necessary evil. Konoha is his backup should things not go as planned.

“What _is_ the plan then?” Konoha asks. 

* * *

The date isn’t elaborate. Bokuto agrees immediately without a second thought, and shows up on time, showered, dressed and coiffed. He looks so handsome that Akaashi thinks of skipping all the steps to take him straight to bed. But it’s not about that tonight. If they are to remember how much they mean to each other, it has to be proper and detailed. Like Akaashi, and like Bokuto brags, Akaashi makes him. 

So they eat. Akaashi cooks. Bokuto talks through his moans of approval, telling him about the team and Berlin, where they might fly to next. He’s blushy when Akaashi reminds him it’s his favorite—that he managed to track down the exact cake they had for their wedding, the one thing Bokuto insisted on picking and adorably pouted through the tasting until he got his way. 

By the time they finish, he’s wine-drunk and soft. His eyes trail Akaashi’s skin. He giggles when they dance. They kiss and Bokuto carries him to bed. Akaashi wraps his legs around his waist, clings to his lips and these memories. His chest is full but not in flowers.

* * *

The game is Tokyo. Akaashi takes hours off work to make it, tells himself he’ll catch up. This is important if they’ll continue healing. He sits in the front, spots saved for sponsors and family. The Jackals play the Falcons. Bokuto shines and the crowd raves over him. Akaashi lives his every hit.

He sees it when they play, perfectly in sync, content to put everything on the line and live every part of their life on the court. Sees it after, when they win, when they talk to the fans, each other, bouncing compliments back and forth like they’re still tossing. 

He sees that his husband, this boy who once said volleyball will always be his to own, can’t help but love someone who shares that with him and feels much the same way. Akaashi can’t be everything; he doesn't need to, but Bokuto wants a setter, and Akaashi’s just his husband. 

So it seems in the end, Akaashi loves someone, who is slowly, gently—like the beginnings of his disease, barely there and then impossible to ignore—falling for another. 

  
  


**part iv: budding**

When he wakes up, there’s a catheter running down his leg so he knows it’ll be a long one. Beeping surrounds him; he’s a spider web of tubes, feels a bit like an experiment. The window blinds are open and it’s night outside, which would explain Bokuto’s presence. They train until late so it must be past ten. 

Bokuto sits by his bed, appropriately upset. The flowers on the bedside table are poppies, bright red like the ones inside him. Akaashi wonders what’s worse, this, as a story coincidence or Bokuto doing it on purpose. He was never one for passive aggressive behavior. _Not enough patience,_ he used to mock, _If I’m pissed, you’ll know it. You won’t be able to live around it._

He’s pissed. The cold, silent type.

No matter what happens, Akaashi will never say he never knew him. For one, it’s cliche. He does know him. They’ve lived together for as long as they could consider themselves capable of it. He knows from a single glance how betrayed Bokuto feels not to have been trusted with this, that it took a hospitalization where he could have lost Akaashi forever for him to realize that was a thing he should have been worrying about. He knows Bokuto called his parents; there’s a get-well card on Akaashi’s pile of presents. He knows he told his team, old and new. Knows Bokuto hasn’t been home in a while and that the first time he went to get Akaashi the fuzzy blanket across his bed, he broke down and cried.

“You’re seeing someone,” Bokuto says when he speaks. His voice sounds unused. “Or you’d like to be.”

He doesn’t realize. 

Akaashi watches as his beautiful, golden eyes shift to where the thickest of the tubes protrudes from Akaashi’s chest. Akaashi can only imagine what’s being sucked through it. 

“Hanahaki, it’s... they said it’s... about love,” Bokuto wraps his mind around it. “There’s...” He makes a face, waving his hand towards his backpack. “Brochures. What am I saying, you probably know.”

Akaashi grips his hand and thinks selfishly of not telling him—they can fight this together. They owe it to each other because they said in sickness and death. If Bokuto thinks it’s Akaashi, who’s questioning, he might refocus his energy into loving him better. 

“I’m not,” Akaashi says, holding his eyes quietly. “I love you more than anything in the world.” 

Bokuto brings his hand towards his face, kisses the spot where the IV digs into his veins. He cries silently and Akaashi is thankful to be close enough to wipe his tears. 

“I love you too,” he says.

* * *

They call it _extraction_ . Like dialysis, it’s a means to an end—a temporary solution given to patients to provide closure. The opportunity to say goodbyes in case the surgery takes with it all memories that Akaashi wants to in the first place. Fifty-percent chance of _collateral amnesia_. Nothing compared to its ninety-percent success rate. 

Dying for love is an idea as archaic as it is foolish. And it is dramatic, pretentious in its symbolism. Akaashi always did like a good love story.

The tubes keep him breathing. Without them, he’d drown. _Stage 4 with bronchial pneumonia._ The hope that the disease will subside on its own is one they have to dismiss because of how quickly it advanced. 

The social worker says it’s hard for _people like them_.

“Like what?” Bokuto bristles, overwhelmed past his breaking point. Where Akaashi welcomes the challenge, Bokuto flails at the thought. In mere days, he’s completely mute. 

People like them meaning people who have been married so long they don’t know how to love anything but each other. People who think it’s this or nothing. Bokuto was Akaashi’s first; a life without him incomprehensible. But if you fight Hanahaki, it wins. It thrives on your denial—the stress running through your system mixed with oxytocin. It’s not love that matters most, but the will to keep being in it despite the odds.

Bokuto sleeps with his head on the bed near Akaashi’s hand. Akaashi pets his hair, watches him breathe, finding it difficult to stay sleeping with the constant reminder of time ticking with every heartbeat. 

They’ve said _I love you_ thirty-seven times. 

* * *

He shows up on the fifth day and from the looks of it, straight from practice. In his hands, several containers of food. He smiles when he enters. Akaashi doesn’t miss the way his eyes go to Bokuto first before flicking away quickly enough that without knowing, you’d miss it. 

They haven’t slept together. There’s no cheating. It would speed up things if there had been but Miya’s entirely ordinary and far from Bokuto’s one true love. 

He’s chatty: 

“I thought you might be sick of hospital food so I brought some onigiri. I didn’t make it by the way. My brother owns a store. They’re Bokkun’s favorite. I didn’t know what you usually liked, Akaashi-san, so I got a little of everything, and I wrote the note. It’s from the team.”

And: 

“I hope you’re feelin’ better. We don’t know exactly what happened and you don’t have to tell me or anythin’. We understand why Bokkun has to miss, and the coach even said it was fine for a few games too.”

And: 

“You used to play too, right, Akaashi-san? I think I remember you. Do you remember me?”

Bokuto gives him half-smiles. He doesn’t talk. Miya doesn’t push it, has words enough for all three of them. Akaashi’s grateful for the company of someone who doesn’t know what they’re going through. The food is delicious. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Bokuto asks once Atsumu has left. As if it’s Akaashi’s feelings they’re discussing. It’d be endearing if it weren’t so painful. Bokuto nods to himself, having his answer. “I’ll switch teams.” Just like that.

In stories, this would be a win, Akaashi triumphing over the rival because there’s always one of those. Real life, with Miya’s clueless grins and the fact that he’s nothing but an x marks the spot, isn’t that simple.

Bokuto isn’t in love with someone else. He’s just not in love with Akaashi. _I love you_ can’t change that. Nor can a disease as beautiful as it is deadly, tying them together in a prison full of beeping ultimatums. 

* * *

“Don’t you think it’s selfish of you?” Konoha asks. “Trying so hard to be selfless that you’re self-martyring?”

“Isn’t that all martyring?” Akaashi smiles. Two days till D-Day. Bokuto’s home showering. 

Konoha rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean, Kei. Sometimes you try so hard to be selfless that it’s selfish. You gave him no chance to participate, which is selfish. You dying over it, selfish. You, giving him to Miya, he’s not yours to give.”

“Hey, he made that decision,” Akaashi interjects. 

Akaashi didn’t tell him to fall in love and Bokuto didn’t want to anyway. There were no flaws to their marriage. Nothing to point to as their demise. It’s stillwater. 

Akaashi looks out the window. “If all options are selfish all the same, I should just be selfish for myself, is what you’re saying? I should tell him screw surgery and hope he’s guilty enough to stay with me even if he isn’t happy. That’s the correct kind of selfish?”

“No,” Konoha says. “Sometimes things don’t work out and no one is to blame and no one has to suffer for it.”

**part v: flowering**

He doesn’t lose his memories, loves Bokuto just the same: in just that, just memories. In the time they spent together, the rituals they shared. To know someone is to love them. He loves what they had. If allowed to, would have clung to it forever. They say the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Their divorce is boring. Maybe their love was too. Maybe that’s how all real things are, there and then not. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn’t exactly a happy story but I wanted to explore a breakup as something that isn’t dramatic or brutal, rather a gentle, inevitable beast, and giving up on love as a normal part of being human. I thought it might be cool to do the reverse of Hanahaki where the person develops it in a relationship because someone is falling out of love, instead of not loving them back. 
> 
> any thoughts/kudos/comments, read over and over until my eyes fall out. 
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/kitcassia?s=21).


End file.
